The Most Authentic Sidewalk Café in New York: Bar Pitti

As long as autumn in New York remains this glorious, you’re likely to find me at Bar Pitti in Greenwich Village, where I've dined so often for so long, the staff used to think I live around the corner.

Why such devotion to an ever-crowded, no-reservations spot, since there are many outdoor cafes scattered all over the city? Well for starters, most al fresco eateries in Manhattan have no right to exist. Sound harsh? Let me ask you: Would you ever plan a wedding in a 150-square-foot ballroom, choose a condo where the master bedroom can only hold one twin bed, or rent a SmartCar to take the family on a road trip to Yosemite? It’s no coincidence that the two most famous sidewalk cafes in the world—Paris’ Café de Flore and Les Deux Magots—share something in common, and it certainly isn’t their cuisine, which is mediocre at best (even if you’re dating a Gauloise-stained regular). Until their exterior areas were enclosed for year-round patronage, both cafes gained renown because they’re situated on the Left Bank’s extremely spacious Boulevard Saint-Germain, easily allowing pedestrians to promenade or hustle by at their chosen pace, while patrons are free to enjoy all who go by as a benign yet hypnotic spectator sport. The last time I dined outdoors on Broadway across from Lincoln Center, the remaining usable sidewalk proved so narrow, my view was a this-close, stress-laden panorama of jockeying butts and jostling shoulder bags, broken by a sweaty passerby who hovered unbothered over my table, then thrust her finger just above my plate exclaiming, “Oh, wow! That looks so good!” I almost felt guilty for not offering her a bite. Another time, at a street-side trattoria on Lower Broadway, two women trying to maneuver around an immovable quartet of cops clustered on a three-foot wide strip of sidewalk, stumbled onto the wrought iron railing that was all that prevented our table a deux from becoming a four-top. As one leaned over the railing trying to right herself, she looked down and demanded to know, “Is that Bolognese?” With our faces almost at eye level, I repeatedly nodded yes, to which she bellowed without turning away, “See Carol, it does too have meat!” Waiter, no dessert. Check, please. This never happens at Bar Pitti’s nearly 300 square feet of outdoor seating along a broad swath of Sixth Avenue, which opens onto a small plaza in front of The Little Red School House just below Bleecker Street. With the sidewalk ten feet wide at its narrowest point, you can watch, even admire the world from a safe distance. Plus, because of Pitti’s enviable location and the clientele it routinely attracts, the passing parade and constant throng waited to be seated mesh to create quite the cool panorama: a Paper Magazine-worthy, all-demographic blend of James Perse T-shirts, Urban Zen wraps,
Gucci loafers, and Top Shop leather, abetted by assorted top knots, facial hair and bracelets. And just for color there are usually a smattering of boldface names—Calvin, Donna, Francesco Clemente, Robert Lee Morris, Fran Lebowitz, which is intriguing because they all used to frequent Da Silvano next door. (The longstanding rivalry between the non-speaking neighboring owners who once were partners is a whole other story.)

The real draw of Bar Pitti, however, is its authenticity. The chalkboard menu (there is a printed one, but regulars never use it) may initially irritate because it’s in Italian, but this allows your waiter to translate in a native accent so musical you’d swear you were being serenaded in a gondola on the Grand Canal. In any language, sweet veal is the base of these marvelous meatballs. Crunchy, garlic-scented spinach is brash enough to be an appetizer all its own. Every soup tastes like a favorite relative made it just for you. Eggplant parmesan is not some lame excuse for vegetarian lasagna, but melting slices of slightly briny velvet. And burrata is lascivious.

My favorite pastas are offered either with bright, opaline clams (take off your tie and avoid arriving in silk), or the tagliatelle with lush wild boar ragu. Pitti’s choices are so simple and fine, it’s the one place you can order liver without apologizing to anyone or indulge in soothing wine-stewed rabbit and not endure one bunny joke. My favorite chalk choices are veal Milanese, tagliata di manzo, and grilled branzino—three classics superior to those served at most places, both uptown and nearby, that charge twice the price.

Regardless of what you order, you are surrounded by the brisk, easy charm New York is not always celebrated for. It all starts with Giovanni, the owner, who greets his regulars like it’s a daily family reunion (and yes, we can call in advance. No, it’s not a fair world, which is why his is a hug worth working for.) But his unflappable goodwill has been adopted by his tireless, momentum-fueled staff (who only shortstop if you should ask for grated cheese on fish. It’s so not gonna happen), and best of all, it affects Pitti’s patrons, who rarely scream, or table hop, block waiters in pursuit of selfies, and freely start conversations with neighboring tables which are welcomed, even when someone is asking what I ordered, probably because they never stick a finger in my plate. You’ve got to love an outdoor café like this. I do.